What that fuck am I doing with my life? In short, I can answer this question most of the time. I'm struggling, and I'm struggling hard. I flounder on my responsibilities at home and give back to everyone except myself. I randomly feel unworthy of success, as if to say the past three years of schooling I've not done anything remotely courageous or noteworthy.
The truth is, I'm fairly accomplished in my hopeful career field of film making. I've made two films in two years that I'm immensely proud of, and thankful to have had the ability to direct one and write/direct the other. I should be YouTube famous by now, given my ideas and perspective, yet I struggle to film little more than Snapchat clips that end up stored on my phone, unshared with the world at large.
I have a distinct eye for photography, can hit a baseball nearly 500 feet, have relationships with people from infancy to elderly, and yet, I struggle with "who" I am to the world. I've been a popular person in the microcosm that is my place on Earth, and I've met and maintained relationships with a handful of famous musicians. Yet, I sit at home, wishing and hoping to make an idea that I can run with for a long period of time, for both monetary gain and some level of fame outside of my well-documented hatred for pineapple on pizza.
My home is a wreck. While not considering myself a hoarder, I am pushing it. I've taken up the task of throwing at least one thing away a day in my apartment, and so far, I've caught the rhythm. The problem is, I have a goal of having a livable and entertainable space, yet I struggle with getting not much more than one thing picked up a day. The place looks like the inside of my brain. I read a psychology article that likened the way in which a home is kept to the interior space of the owner's brain, basically saying that an organized home comes from an organized person, mentally. While I don't totally agree, mainly because my film life is very strictly organized, I rarely have much other energy to make the home match the production log, so to speak.
I have a lethargy, somewhere between immense physical depression and genuine health condition, that has robbed me of my joy in life. I spend my time daily a slave to notions that "one day" I'll be organized, "one day" I won't struggle anymore, "one day" I'll be accomplished and rightfully paid. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing at any given moment of the day, except in that I know I'm spending a lot of time hoping I'll have the energy to see a loved one, or give my energy to a conversation in line at a restaurant. The worst part about most of my days is I don't have energy for much else except crumpling papers on my book shelf and walking my dog.
I feel like a slave to my lethargy. And, I know this isn't the "me" I've always been. Two years ago, I was working on four or five film projects at a time. Now, I can't motivate my editor to start a project because I can't find my vision for the project. I am struggling.